SITA’S SISTER (40 page)

As the war raged on the shores of Lanka, the palace had witnessed within its closed, carved walls, a war of another kind, thought Urmila wryly. Each one of them had their own battles to fight, to combat the demons of their minds. Some were fighting the people around them, some with the situation they were trapped in, some with Fate, some with God and some with themselves. Even the weapons used were different—hatred, angry words, love, patience and faith.

But who all had won that inner battle? Who lost what? Did she lose her innocence for all that she won?

The value of a moment gone and lived often lies in the strength of its memory, sighed Urmila as she gave the final touches to the painting. It was almost done, just like the war. Lakshman had survived his fatal wound with the Sanjeevani brought by Hanuman. He was fighting Indrajit again on the battlefield, more fierce and purposeful than before.

‘Indrajit is said to be more powerful than Ravan,’ said Shatrughna. ‘He is called Indrajit because he had defeated the most powerful god—Indra. And from that day his name got changed from Meghnad to Indrajit. He is said to be omnipotent—all powerful, and none can kill him except a devout celibate ascetic, divinely strong and supremely protected with the love and sacrifice of a doting wife. And that man is Lakshman, my brother, who lives through the power of your love, sister. There is none like you!’ he said reverentially, bowing his head in deep respect.

Urmila was embarrassed. ‘I did what any other in my place would have done!’ she exclaimed. ‘It was simply a matter of acceptance.’

‘You saved my brother!’ said Shatrughna fervently. ‘You saved us! All these years, Bharat and I might have looked after Ayodhya and the people, but it was you who looked after us, kept the family together and saved it from a living hell…it is not how it was when Ram left. And it is not going to be when Ram returns with Sita and Lakshman. You made this palace a better place. You made it a home one wants to return to every single day. You blessed it with your patient love, your indomitable spirit and your everlasting hope for peace.’

Urmila coloured a delicate pink. ‘She does not take any word of commendation too well,’ smiled Sumitra, peering closely at the detailed lines of the figures crowding the canvas. ‘But may I praise your work? I wasn’t there for the wedding but I feel I am right there, right now! It is as if time had stood and you children have just got married!’

‘That was the idea,’ agreed Urmila, her tone wistful. ‘I want to relive that day each time I look at it. It was a momentous one for all of us, when our lives significantly changed forever…’

‘Not for the better, I am afraid,’ sighed the old queen. ‘You girls from Mithila have suffered more than you deserved.’

‘I got your Soumitra that day. And I am grateful to you for that,’ said Urmila quietly. ‘But I think he deserved me!’ she added with a twinkle in her eye, trying to ease the gathering solemness.

‘Did he deserve you? I often wonder,’ responded Sumitra. ‘Did we deserve you? None in the family ever considered your feelings, did they? None of us,’ she repeated emphatically. ‘But neither did you harbour any resentment for that nor embitter yourself,’ she paused. Urmila wondered, with a pang, if the queen was hinting at Mandavi. ‘And yet you did not take anything lying down, a woman free to speak for herself, bending the rules but not breaking them, turning the shackles of your feet into anklets, tinkling with serene joy and bringing music to our deaf, saddened ears. We were blind and mute to your pain, your hopelessness. And yet you gave us your all. For years, we were being torn apart by mutual distrust and resentment but all of us pretended that all was well, that denial was the best policy, except you. You made us face the truth. You showed us the mirror to the real us, not a reflection of what the world—and we ourselves—believed about us. I have always been so proud of Soumitra but I am ashamed of my maternal arrogance for overlooking the obvious. You have made me prouder, for you are a finer person. So, don’t thank me, dear. I thank you. We thank you for making us happier, better people.’

Urmila was too overwhelmed for words. She simply placed her hands gently on the wrinkled, withered hands of the queen and managed to say softly, ‘Soumitra will be back very, very soon. Happier days will be here again…we deserve them at last!’

He was everywhere around her. She could not forget their fretting arguments, the glances, the feel, the touch, the experience of him being next to her… Each corner of the palace reminded her of him, each wall echoed with his voice, his sardonic laugh, his sure footsteps as he climbed up those steps into the room where she painted. She almost felt that surge of elation when she heard his steps on the stairs. It was a sentiment, it was a memory.

It was the last day of Navratri. And it was the day which saw Ram kill Ravan. Sita was free. Like Goddess Durga, Ram had annihilated evil, thought Urmila as she laid the prasad—several plateful of fruits—at the deity’s feet. She folded her hands and bowed her head in deep reverence and said a prayer. Let peace and joy reign in this land, she whispered fervently.

The swarming city was abuzz with tales of Ram’s bravery, Sita’s capture by Ravan, Ram’s frantic quest for Sita, his friendly alliance with Sugriva, Hanuman’s discovery of Sita in the Ashok garden of Lanka, the bridge the vanaras built across the sea to Lanka and Ravan’s eventual death at Ram’s hands in the battle. And as everyone in the palace began the celebrations and preparations for Ram’s grand welcome, sidled an uneasy tiding. When she first heard of it, Urmila could not believe her ears and brushed it off as a rumour—there were always some nasty tongues to vitiate the merry mood.

But the rumours were not wicked hearsay. They were true—an ugly truth that sullied the sacredness of love, duty and faith. The news spread like wildfire that Sita, in a moment of defiance, had walked into a big, brightly burning fire to prove her chastity to Ram and the world. And as she had arrived, pale and beautiful, dressed in splendour, every inch the queen of Ayodhya, the queen of his heart, to finally meet Ram, everyone in Lanka jostled to catch a glimpse of Sita—the woman for whom this war was fought. They wanted to see the princess who had lived in the forest with her husband, who had so enamoured their king and refused to bow down to him; the lady who had walked into the fire to prove her chastity.

Urmila gasped: the scene playing out in her mind’s eye after Shatrughna had informed the family that Ram, Sita and Lakshman were on their way home. It had dulled the bubbling joy of their return. How could Ram have allowed it, wondered Urmila. Why would he say it now? Was he not the husband who rescued his wife? Was he not the lover who was waiting to see his beloved again? Or was he the king addressing his queen in front of his subjects?

In the quiet privacy of Urmila’s chamber, the sisters remained stunned in subdued silence. The stillness in the room and their hearts was deafening, screaming for explanation. At last it was Mandavi who spoke, the virulence in her voice unmistakable. ‘So, as a king, Ram was expected to uphold moral principles and to perform his duty, and thus it was required of him to question Sita’s chasity! Was it this overriding responsibility of setting the right standards as a king which was essential to prove her fidelity before the society?’ she asked caustically. ‘But despite all this, I think the morality of the act is questionable. How can one compel someone to undergo torture and public humiliation for exoneration in the eyes of society?’ she demanded. ‘Sita was kidnapped, she did not stay at Ravan’s palace willingly! Then why this doubt in people’s mind? And in his mind?’ she added.

Mandavi’s biting words reminded Urmila of her unrestrained tirade at Chitrakoot when she had violently denunciated the brothers for not following their dharma to their wives. Her own words echoed back in her seething mind.

She nodded. ‘If that was the case, Ram should have renounced his throne and his status as king to protect her rather than be answerable to his people who dared to point fingers at his wife, the queen, for not being “chaste” enough,’ said Urmila forcefully. ‘It was a dilemma of a husband versus the king—who is higher, is the moral question?’ she added bitterly. ‘…This to a wife who chose to go in exile with him to the forest than stay in the protective luxury of the palace.’

The usually quiet Kirti came out strong. ‘Of course, he knew she was true, she was his love!’ refuted Kirti. ‘It was a calculated, deliberate move on his part. It was his premeditated wish to demonstrate Sita’s fidelity publicly so that her chasity could never be quesioned now or later after this trial of fire. Ram did it to preserve Sita’s reputation, to preserve the dharma of the world. He did it so that no one later would ever point fingers at his wife, at his queen.’

‘Agreed, but he did not stop Sita from walking into the fire lest the people accuse him of favouring and covering up for his wife,’ shot back Urmila. ‘But what crime had she committed for him to cover up and prove to the world her innocence? And this for his subjects with fickle moods? Can you stop a petty, wicked tongue from gossiping? The best way to remove public misconception is to address it directly, not through trials and tests which can be questioned later. Ram stood up for all those women villified by society—Tara, Mandodari, Ahalya—then why could he not protect Sita from social censure?’

‘The agnipariksha was his way of silencing people, Urmi,’ maintained Kirti. ‘Society has always been hypocritical. Ram shielded these women from social disgrace but exposed Sita to one. Because if he had openly shielded her, society would have also pointed fingers at him and accused him of covering up for his own, favouring his close ones. Society expects their rulers to be more perfect than themselves.’

‘If what his subjects believe is so paramount for him, then why did he not listen to them when they begged and implored him not to go in exile and leave Ayodhya?’ argued Urmila, recalling the sight of the huge, wailing crowd of people following Ram’s chariot all the way up to the banks of River Sarayu. ‘They wanted him to be king, but he went to the forest to keep his father’s word. So, again, in this dilemma of dharma between king and son, he preferred to follow the dharma of a son. Not the king’s,’ she reminded pertinently. ‘So, why now at the cost of hurting and humiliating his wife?’

‘He did it to establish her faithfulness to the world so that they could not malign her later. He did it to protect her!’ said Kirti vehemently.

Mandavi shook her head with resolute determination. ‘No, she was wronged! But what I fail to comprehend is why did Sita keep silent and not retaliate? And why did she suffer the agony of humiliation by a suicidal action of stepping into the fire?’ she asserted. ‘It was she who ordered Lakshman to make that fire!’

The mention of her husband made Urmila wince. What must he have gone through hearing his brother’s cold, cruel words? Had his hands trembled when kindling that fire for Sita? He had been her protector for fourteen years, shielding her from possible danger and destruction, but he could not protect her from his brother’s damaging allegation.

‘For all our angry debate here, I think Sita would be the best person to answer these questions once she is here, once all of them are back,’ sighed Urmila wearily. ‘There’s yet so much to be done for the welcome ceremony and the coronation ritual which follows immediately. So it is best we cheer up and get along with the preparations.’

Kirti brightened immediately. ‘They are to arrive another five days from today! But, it is amavasya that day—a moonless night!’ pouted Kirti dejectedly.

‘No bad day is bad, dear,’ refuted Urmila. ‘They are returning, that’s what is so special. If it is a moonless night, the oil lamps will look so exquisite flickering all over the city in the darkness! What a lovely sight that would be!’

‘And a lovely sight you should be too! I shall dress you up for that day! Shanta has been informed, so she is certain to doll you up!’

Urmila burst out laughing. ‘I am no bashful bride!’

‘Oh, you will be bashful for all your intrepidness!’ smiled Mandavi, giving her a sudden, hard, affectionate hug. ‘I am so happy for you—at last he’ll be back!’

Urmila looked into her clouded eyes. ‘So will Bharat,’ she reminded her gently, giving her sister’s arm an assuring pat. Mandavi quickly lowered her lashes but not before Urmila glimpsed a brief flare of hope in the anguished eyes. ‘Kirti, how do you intend dressing her up? Definitely no pale shades for our Ice Princess! And hope the feast you and Ma Kaikeyi are planning is both mind-blowing and tongue-tingling! Remember, the culinary queen is arriving—Sita might just head straight for the kitchen!’

Kirti giggled. Mandavi was grinning at their inane garrulousness, pretending to search for her book. She well knew her sisters would not allow her to read now. It was almost like old times, Urmila sighed contented…